| William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910. | | | | Crucifixus Pro Nobis | | By Patrick Cary (fl. 1651) |
| | CHRIST IN THE CRADLE LOOK, how he shakes for cold! | |
| How pale his lips are grown! | |
| Wherein his limbs to fold | |
| Yet mantle has he none. | |
| His pretty feet and hands | 5 |
| (Of late more pure and white | |
| Than is the snow | |
| That pains them so) | |
| Have lost their candour quite. | |
| His lips are blue | 10 |
| (Where roses grew), | |
| He’s frozen ev’erywhere: | |
| All th’ heat he has | |
| Joseph, alas! | |
| Gives in a groan; or Mary in a tear. | 15 |
| |
CHRIST IN THE GARDEN Look, how he glows for heat! | |
| What flames come from his eyes! | |
| ’Tis blood that he does sweat, | |
| Blood his bright forehead dyes: | |
| See, see! It trickles down: | 20 |
| Look, how it showers amain! | |
| Through every pore | |
| His blood runs o’er, | |
| And empty leaves each vein. | |
| His very heart | 25 |
| Burns in each part; | |
| A fire his breast doth sear: | |
| For all this flame, | |
| To cool the same | |
| He only breathes a sigh, and weeps a tear. | 30 |
| |
CHRIST IN HIS PASSION What bruises do I see! | |
| What hideous stripes are those! | |
| Could any cruel be | |
| Enough, to give such blows? | |
| Look, how they bind his arms | 35 |
| And vex his soul with scorns, | |
| Upon his hair | |
| They make him wear | |
| A crown of piercing thorns. | |
| Through hands and feet | 40 |
| Sharp nails they beat: | |
| And now the cross they rear: | |
| Many look on: | |
| But only John | |
| Stands by to sigh, Mary to shed a tear. | 45 |
| |
| Why did he shake for cold? | |
| Why did he glow for heat? | |
| Dissolve that frost he could, | |
| He could call back that sweat. | |
| Those bruises, stripes, bonds, taunts, | 50 |
| Those thorns, which thou didst see, | |
| Those nails, that cross, | |
| His own life’s loss, | |
| Why, O why suffered he? | |
| ’Twas for thy sake. | 55 |
| Thou, thou didst make | |
| Him all those torments bear: | |
| If then his love | |
| Do thy soul move, | |
| Sigh out a groan, weep down a melting tear. | 60 | | | |
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